‘Jesus. It’s like a scene out of one of my crappy movies. Moral dilemmas and all that ethical shit mixed with sex and money. In this case it’s straightforward. I can’t pay even if I wanted to-which I don’t-because I’m broke.’
I swung my head from side to side, taking in the glass, the chrome, the cedar decking, the hot tub.
‘It’s all on the budget,’ he said. ‘And don’t worry, your fee’ll be covered in the same way. I took this shitty job on because I need the fucking money. Only reason.’
‘How come you’re broke?’
‘You haven’t kept up. The last two pictures were flops. Went straight to DVD and didn’t do any business even then. It costs to live in LA. The mortgage and car leases you wouldn’t believe, and you have to keep up appearances in this game. Look like you’re down and you’ll be there.’
‘I’m flattered that you called me, but really it’s a job for the police.’
He shook his head. ‘No way. There’re still a few holes to fill in the picture’s budget and if word got out that I’m under this sort of pressure the whole thing could fold. I can’t afford bad publicity and I certainly can’t afford to let it get out that I’m broke. You see the bind I’m in.’
‘Plus you don’t care about her, one way or the other.’
‘Hey, I don’t want to get her ears in the mail or anything like that. Shit-movie talk again. What do you think I should do?’
‘I guess, when they get in touch, negotiate. Buy time.’
‘I suppose I could sell something, raise a hundred grand at a pinch.’
That’s the thing about the rich. When they say they’re broke they don’t quite mean it the way most people do. I was willing to take the job on even though I knew the people involved were flaky and the outcome was very uncertain. Just sitting tight waiting for a kidnapper to make contact didn’t appeal to me though. There had to be more I could do.
“You say you don’t know who she’s been spending time with, Bruce, but you must have some idea-some names, some suggestions. Let’s get proactive here, as they say.’
He gave it some thought as he worked on his drink. Then he left the room for a few minutes, returning with a notepad and some cards. ‘I found these in the bedroom-a few places she seems to have gone to.’
He handed them to me while he scribbled on the notepad. The cards were for a Double Bay wine bar, a disco at the Cross and a Thai restaurant in Newtown. The woman got around. Haxton tore off the page and passed it over.
‘That’s a few of the people she used to hang with and she mentioned them casually when we were together here. She scribbled down some cell numbers by the phone that seem to relate to a couple of them. That’s the best I can do.’
I examined the list-two men and three women; mobile numbers for one of the men and two of the women.
‘These blokes-friends or lovers?’ I asked.
‘Don’t know, but don’t rule out the women-Cassie swings both ways.’
I put the cards and the sheet in my pocket. ‘It’s a place to start. What you have to do is keep your mobile charged. That’s how they’ll contact you. You have to play it as hard as you can. Just get a response and buy some time.’
He nodded. ‘So I… go about my business?’
‘That’s right. There could be someone watching you, so act the way you feel. Shouldn’t be too hard. I’ll have someone keep an eye on you. Might spot a watcher if there is one and that’d give us an edge.’
‘Right.’
‘Two more things. Try and confirm that they’ve got her. Has she got a birthmark or a mole or something distinctive? A tattoo?’
‘Several tattoos.’
‘Right. Then ask for confirmation that she’s alive. Ask to talk to her. They might not play. If they’ve got her she might be drugged.’
‘ If?’
‘Wouldn’t be the first kidnap faked by the supposed victim. Does Cassie know you’re broke?’
He shook his head and I left him to his troubles.
I didn’t really intend to ring the people whose names I had. What would I say? ‘Hello, I’m a private detective looking for Cassie Haxton who’s been kidnapped. Please don’t tell the media.’ Getting the names was just a way of drawing a bit more out of Haxton, which had worked, and making me look efficient. I haven’t handled more than a couple of kidnapping cases and only one was a serious matter. But I’ve dealt with ransom demands for objects quite a few times, and I’ve come to the conclusion that they’re not always just about money. Putting the money angle aside, you have to ask yourself- who benefits!
Haxton had given me some clues and I phoned Ingrid Svensson who runs an agency for people-in the film business-actors, producers, directors and all the rest. She was the one who got me the minding job on Haxton’s earlier effort and we’d shared some jokes about Lance Hartley and his little habits. I’d since done a few jobs for her, like running an actor through some of the things he needed to know to look and sound like a private detective, and locating a producer who’d skipped without paying a couple of her clients.
Ingrid was busy but she found some time for me. Her office was in Surry Hills near the park named after the politician Eddie Ward, ‘the firebrand of East Sydney’. My mother, an ALP groupie, had played the piano at his wake. I went up seven floors to Ingrid’s ‘suite’, which was festooned with photographs of film people, not all of them beautiful. Ingrid is sixty and looks forty-one of those. Olive complexion, white-blonde hair, dark eyes, sharp cheekbones. She sat me down at her desk in the open plan office and lifted her Scandinavian eyebrows.
‘Well, Cliff?’
‘All this is confidential.’
‘But of course.’
‘Who would stand to gain if Bruce Haxton’s film…’
‘ The Golden Galaxy.’
‘… didn’t get off the ground?’
‘Not me, for one. A few people on my books are down to work on it. What have you heard?’
‘My lips are professionally sealed. All I can tell you, and I shouldn’t but I want to be as straight with you as I can, is that Haxton’s my client.’
‘Ah yes, I remember that you shared an interest in drinking and wrestling.’
‘Boxing.’
‘Disgusting; it’s been banned in civilised countries. But go on.’
‘That’s it. Are there rumours, doubts, fears, jealousies?’
‘This is the film business. All those things are a given.’
‘Anything specific? Come on, Ingrid, you know everything that’s going on.’
‘Well, I know they’re not quite there with the post-production budget. I hear they’re working on Henry Stawell to try to get it up to scratch.’
‘Him being?’
‘A lawyer, a stockbroker and a merchant banker, all done with flair.’
‘Is he likely to come through?’
‘Only if he’s sure the human structure is in place, the right people.’
‘Which brings me back to the original question.’
Ingrid doesn’t do things like scratch her head or fiddle with things on her desk. Her moments of hesitation are signalled by a slight tightening of her well-shaped lips. It came now. ‘There has been some talk about the script.’
‘I thought they just moved the actors around, lip-synced them and let the special effects people do all the work on films like this.’
‘It’s anachronistic to talk of films-there are no celluloid reels or sprockets anymore. It’s all digital.’
‘I’ll try to remember. The script?’
‘There’s a story that the script’s based on a book and that the writer’s been cut out of the action. In fact that
